


En Vogue

by JazzRaft



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Secret Relationship, Sensuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2018-07-09
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:19:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10520160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JazzRaft/pseuds/JazzRaft
Summary: Nyx and Noctis are high end models for rival brands. The presslovesthe tense competition between them, bitter adversaries in the war for high fashion... Well, what the paparazzi don't know won't hurt 'em.





	1. Leather black and eyes of blue.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/157889776587/oh-well-then-on-that-note-i-give-you-a-fun) for [praeyers.](http://praeyers.tumblr.com/)

“How much longer do you think we can keep this up?”

“I mean, if the headlines haven’t figured it out by now, I’m not sure they ever will. We’re not exactly being subtle.”

Nyx tapped the tablet screen, turning the latest magazine cover towards Noctis like a city watchman turning a flashlight into a suspect’s face. Noctis glanced at the photo as he dragged on his pants, then gave Nyx a sly smirk that did not match the interview ignorance of his words.

“It was a very insightful and rewarding collaboration.”

Nyx grinned in agreement, relishing the fact that he was “rewarded” with a half-naked Noct both in front of the camera _and_ behind it. The sight of Insomnia’s two rival commodities, sprawled back-to-back and half-dressed in the summer center-pieces of their respective designer’s catalogues on the front cover of _Stellar_ , had the opposite effect on the public than either of the models had expected. The feature contained images that could not be more intimate unless Noctis had his hands down Nyx’s pants, and yet the media outlets didn’t seem to suspect a thing.

“ _LUCIAN CRUISERS’_ BAD BOY FURTHERS IMAGE BY STRIKING POSE IN ULRIC’S SHADOW.”

“LEADING MAN OF _KINGSGLAIVE_ LOSING OUT TO _CRUISER’S_ CASANOVA.”

“FEROCIOUS FEUD BEHIND THE SCENES OF _STELLAR_. INSIDE SOURCE SAYS!”

Oh. It was ferocious alright. To the point of tearing up thousand dollar designer samples and paying for them out of pocket the morning after to keep the questions quiet.

While celebrity gossip continued to interpret the heated stares and teasing remarks as veiled competition between the two of them… the blogosphere had penned a more truthful story.

“Uh oh, I think we might have killed _goddaemon_ ,” Nyx said as he scrolled through his feed. “They haven’t posted anything yet and the issue’s been out for more than an hour.”

Noctis gasped, “Oh no, they’re my favorite! What about DAN?”

“Ooooh yeah, they’re up. But they’re worried it’s the publisher queer-baiting. Having a hard time getting excited about it.”

“Can’t bait what’s already caught.”

“Babe, you’re beautiful, but if you pull one more fishing pun over me, I’m gonna give the bloggers something to cry about.”

Noctis chuckled, zipping up his pants before crouching beneath Nyx’s bed in search of a missing boot. Nyx was still a little undecided on how he felt about strangers on the internet assuming the status of his sex life, but given that in this case the speculation about him and Noctis was in fact true, he really couldn’t begrudge it.

“What time is it, anyway?” Noctis asked when his fan of spiky hair reappeared at the edge of the bed.

A quick glance towards Nyx’s alarm clock hastened his movements. He shoved his feet into his found biker boots and scrambled across the mattress to reach for his shirt on Nyx’s pillow. Once he was in reach, Nyx hooked an arm around his waist and hauled him backwards to the foot of the bed. Noctis landed with an undignified yelp that promptly turned into a fit of laughter as Nyx’s hands tickled down his sides.

“Don’t,” he chuckled. “I have to get these pants back to Ignis before noon.”

“Why? Who else is he gonna put ‘em on?”

Nyx grinned down at him, fingers curling through the belt-loops of those jeans. Artfully ripped all along the thighs to tease at that moonlight skin underneath, and tapering tight around his calves, even tighter around his ass, and inky black, gods, he _loved_ Noct in black. Cut the smoothness of his skin that much clearer and complimented the midnight splash of his hair. It fell so wildly across his eyes. Every tangle of it Nyx could trace from the memory of where his fingers had fisted through it. Thrown beneath Nyx like this, arms tossed over his head and those practically painted-on pants swiping over the deep angles of his hips, he looked like a model for a much more scandalous line of work.

“I do love you in these,” Nyx breathed, smirking as he dragged his hands around the backs of Noctis’s thighs, before inching them upwards to cup his backside.

Noctis grunted, biting his lip when Nyx squeezed. “Could have fooled me,” he said. “You couldn’t seem to get them off of me quick enough last night.”

“Beautiful, but hardly practical,” Nyx said. “Thanks for the fall preview, by the way.”

“Hope I can trust you to stay tight-lipped about it. I could lose my job if these pieces leak.”

“Then you’d have to come work for _Kingsglaive_.”

A shudder of revulsion passed through Noctis that earned him a light swat on the ass. He chuckled, holding Nyx’s gaze with a flash of mischief and a tempting press of one knee into his side. A low growl rumbled from Nyx’s chest.

“Mmm, does your photographer even know how lucky he is? All those hours in the studio, alone, with you, in _these_.” He crept his fingers into the back pockets of those lethally sharp jeans.

“Considering retiring to behind the camera? Has the ‘Prince’ finally knocked you off the throne for front cover king?”

The media did love their nicknames. “The Prince” and “the Hero,” screwing when they should have been screaming at each other in a desperate struggle for the crown of high fashion. They did love their feuds, but, _oh_ , imagine how much more they would love the scandal. Imagine vindicating the bloggers that seemed to know them better than every news anchor from here to Niflheim. Teasing the idea in his head, Nyx leaned back for his phone on the nightstand.

“What is it that your cameraman likes to say?” he asked, lighting up the screen before straddling Noctis’s hips. “Let your _whole body_ _talk_.”

“Oh gods, it sounds so much sexier when you say it,” Noctis sighed.

“How ‘bout you give me something just as sexy back?”

Noctis ran his teeth over his lower lip in consideration. Then he shifted underneath Nyx, wiggling his hips up from between Nyx’s thighs. The movement strained the jeans even more dangerously low down his waist. His back arched off the sheets and he pulled his hands through his own hair, long, slender fingers stark white in the charcoal tresses. And because this was for Nyx’s benefit, he let his head loll lazily to the side and bit his lip in that demurely smoldering way that was reserved just for his bed. An almost shy expression, although the wiry expanse of flesh bared for Nyx’s phone was anything but. Nyx tapped the screen to capture the image for eternity.

“You should have been a centerfold, and I should have been your photographer.”

“Not too late to change careers,” Noctis chuckled as Nyx lowered himself down against him, admiring the shot preserved in his phone.

“You know, I _was_ considering anonymously sending this to the message boards. I mean, can you even _imagine_ the conspiracy theories? Low-quality camera-phone footage of the _Cruisers’_ star, all tangled up in, oh my god, are those _bedsheets_? There’s no way this can be from an official shoot. Who could be behind the camera? Whose bed is he posing in? Could… Could it be our Hero’s?”

Noctis laughed at the affronted, celebrity gossip host voice Nyx recited his mock article with. “No, no, don’t send it out _now_. Send it out in, hmm… three months? Because imagine what they’ll say when they realize what season these jeans were for. How long have we _really_ been doing it then?”

“Shiva, you’re hot when you’re being diabolical.”

“Not hot enough to burn you off of me so I can get out of here.”

Nyx smirked, tossing his phone to get lost in the mess of sheets before pushing himself flush against Noctis. He made the Prince’s breath hitch, a small sound that made Nyx’s smile spread wider. He reached down to stroke one of those toned thighs, clasped so tight in that smooth black denim.

“You might be as hot as Ifrit, but I’m the Rock of Ravatogh. You’re gonna drown in me before you burn me off.”

“Your pick-up lines are disgusting,” Noctis gasped, just before he grabbed Nyx’s face and kissed him like there was no tomorrow.

There was no way those pants were leaving his apartment.


	2. Dressed up to ride for you, baby.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t tell if you’re trying to look this hot because you’re having an off day and need the confidence boost, or you really want this guy to like what he’s taking off of you.”
> 
> In which Prompto consults.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/161140580687/ill-pick-you-up-at-the-airport-super-models) for [praeyers](http://praeyers.tumblr.com/) and an anonymous request for more romantic consultant Prompto.

“Are these… I dunno… _too_ slutty? Or tastefully sexy with the right shirt?”

“Yup. Sure. Good.”

“You’re not even paying attention!”

“For the fifteenth time, Noct, I can’t tell you what’s good to wear if I don’t know where or why you’re wearing it.”

Prompto kicked himself up from where he’d flopped back on Noct’s bed in the sea of aborted fashion choices he’d piled over it. Noctis had been at this for _literal hours_. An unlimited supply of high-end samples, gift bonuses, and experimental knock-offs that celebrities might _murder_ for, and, apparently, not one of them met this unknown criteria Prompto was supposed to be coaching on.

Noctis huffed, adjusting the waistline of his pants – the one article of clothing that seemed to have earned his seal of approval, with or without Prompto’s second opinion.

“Are you _sure_ you’re not going on a date?” Prompto asked him for the he-didn’t-even-know-how-many-numbered time. “Or are you going on a black ops mission? Because if you want to keep with the cloak and dagger theme, you’re gonna want a darker wash than that.”

Noctis paused, staring at the slim cut of his pants in the mirror like he was re-considering his decision on them after that comment. In a fit of panic, Prompto pelted the nearest shirt at his head to distract him from condemning the sole survivor of this closet raid.

“Okay,” Prompto sighed, dragging his hands down his face. “I know you’re dressing for _someone._ If it’s not a date and it’s not a shoot or an interview or a business meeting, then what the hell is it, Noct? Is this a booty call? You getting laid tonight, or what?”

Noctis rolled the shirt through his hands, lips pursed and brows creased while he mulled over whether or not the shade went with the muted shine of his leather-clad legs. He glanced up at the mirror to catch Prompto’s probing stare when he didn’t answer. Noctis at least had the dignity to _look_ guilty for his silence, appeasing his friend by obediently fitting his arms through the dark gray button-down. He pulled the sides together, raked a scrutinizing glance over it in the mirror, then wrinkled his nose and fished himself out of it again. He tossed it blindly back at Prompto, and Prompto was ready with another that he threw at his already waiting hand.

Noctis considered the new option while he considered Prompto’s stare burning holes in his bare back. It was a long-sleeved Henley, ombre dyed; light gray at the shoulders and darkening down to a black that blended with his pants. Noctis fisted it over his head to break the glare, at least for a moment. He dragged it down his chest, fiddled with the hem against his waistband, turned right, then left, liked the looks of where the shirt clung and the pants defined, and gave it a brusque nod of approval. Prompto could have sung a hymn to the Astrals, he was so relieved. Instead, he narrowed his eyes further as he watched Noctis appraise the outfit, paying special attention to where the prince’s eyes focused and which spots his hands fussed over.

“I can’t tell if you’re trying to look this hot because you’re having an off day and need the confidence boost, or you really want this guy to like what he’s taking off of you.”

“I didn’t say there was a guy,” Noctis countered.

He ducked his head to work on the little row of buttons on the shirt. Or, at least, _pretend_ that was what he was doing. But Prompto had been studying Noctis through the lens of his camera for years, now. He knew that body and all its little ticks just as intimately as any secret lover he was dressing up for might. Prompto tilted his head to the side to look around Noctis at his reflection that he was trying to hide. Not well enough that Prompto didn’t catch the little tinge of red on his cheeks and the wistful smile playing at the edges of his lips.

“Been seeing this guy long?”

Noctis shot a glare at him in the mirror, the redness of his cheeks betraying his answer. For a moment, Prompto thought the little rise in his heartbeat might be anger. Because how in the hell did he _not know_? That was a familiar smile and blush combo. That was the smirk of a man who wasn’t crushing. That was the blush of a man with a cultivated fondness. There was a whole history in that tiny duck of his eyes in the mirror to avoid Prompto’s gaze.

He thought he might be angry for not being told that his model, his muse, his best friend for the rest of his life, was dating someone. But then he felt his lips split in a smile and Prompto bounced up onto his feet, crowding Noctis against the vanity and assaulting him with a hundred questions.

“What’s his name? How’d you meet? _When’d_ you meet? What does he do? Is it a casual thing? Serious thing? Unconventional, 21 st-century, no labels kinda thing? A _forbidden_ Shakespearian drama kinda thing?”

“You sure that you’re selling your photos to the right people? Because you sound like you should work for the paparazzi.”

“Duuuuude! Why haven’t you told me about this? I would’ve stopped trying to hook you up with the lighting and rigging guy!”

Noctis squirmed out from between him and the vanity to loot the floor for an appropriate pair of boots. He balanced a hand on the edge of the bed as he shimmied a foot into one of the winning shoes. If only he could pick out everything as quickly as he picked out shoes.

“We have our reasons,” Noctis vaguely explained.

Prompto crossed his arms and pouted, waiting for Noctis to glance his way, transfix on the look, and cave a beat later. But his friend determinedly kept his eyes on his shoes while he adjusted the buckles and zippers.

“Fine,” Prompto sighed. “Reasons it is. Will you at least tell me why today’s such a big deal? You guys have been seeing each other for a while, right? What are you fussing over the outfit for if you don’t need to make a good first impression?”

“He’s been away for a while. For work. And I just wanted to remind him what he’s been missing out on.”

“How dare he leave you for so long?” Prompto asked with a sly smile.

Noctis matched the same smile back. “Damn right.” He kicked his heels into the shoes, gave himself one last look-over in the mirror, then turned to Prompto for a final check. “Fuckable enough?”

“Fuckable enough,” Prompto approved with a finalizing nod.

—

Nyx grinned at the text from Noctis. The first time he’d smiled for the sake of smiling and not for a camera’s benefit in _months_.

“ _I’ll pick you up at the airport.”_

The private jet landed not too long after that. Nyx fought through the jet-lag and the security checks and the rick-a-mor-all of flying back into the country before following the helpful directions Noctis sent him. He was lead to a sleek black car hidden in the corner of airport parking, the taillights blinking to confirm that his attention was on the right car.

His steps quickened across the black-top until he was tearing open the passenger-side door, throwing his things into the back-seat, and dragging Noctis halfway across the dashboard to kiss him senseless. He’d dreamed of having that body against him again, those fervent and rebellious lips carving into his own, that hair fisted through his fingers. He reached across to grip his hip, felt leather and growled into the mouth on his before raking his fingers around his waist to burrow into the back pockets.

“Who do I have to thank for dressing you today?” he asked with a breathless smile.

“It was a joint effort. May have had to tease Prompto about us to get the consultation.”

“As if I didn’t envy the kid enough,” Nyx chuckled. “First he gets to see you in these things, now he gets to help you into them? You’re lucky I’m not a jealous lover.”

Noctis smirked, dark and dangerous. “Want to pretend to be? Got a nice spot picked out a couple miles from here. What do you say? You, me, and the passenger seat?”

“Mm, you sure know how to welcome a guy home.”

“And don’t you forget it, Hero.”


	3. Pay tribute to me.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The camera flash would have split his skull in two if Nyx wasn’t behind the photographer, making stupid faces to get him to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted on [tumblr](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/165669279872/for-the-prompt-kiss-list-16-because-god-knows-i) for #16 of [this list](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/165513582537/fictional-kiss-prompts), requested by [kibasdaydreams](http://kibasdaydreams.tumblr.com/).

The camera flash would have split his skull in two if Nyx wasn’t behind the photographer, making stupid faces to get him to laugh. For a man that was determined to keep their relationship a secret, he was doing a poor job of pretending otherwise.

But the photographer was oblivious – an exaggerated upstart, newly employed at _Kingsglaive_. There was little reason to smile for him when he ordered it, barking out instructions recited from too much TV and not enough college courses.

Noctis knew that he was spoiled over at _Lucian Cruisers_. Prompto was unlike any other photographer in the industry, let alone a better friend than Noctis could ever have asked for. He was the exception to every rule with his enthusiasm for his job, his respect for every subject that filled his lens, his patience and his politeness to each one. It was easy to forget that Prompto was one in a million, and that not every photographer saw the same things through the camera that he did.

Especially not the things behind the camera.

Nyx wrapped one of the trendy ties around his throat like a noose, lolling his tongue out and crossing his eyes when the photographer demanded, “ _More fervor!”_ Noctis let himself laugh. As if the command wasn’t comical enough without Nyx’s pantomime. With every zealous plea for artistic absolution, Nyx screwed up his face into an even more ridiculous caricature. Noct’s laughter lightened, far gone with fondness for the faces that the camera never wanted to see.

“Lunch!” someone shouted in the dark behind the studio lights, cutting the loud, auto-tuned pop music that “encouraged emotive expression” for this particular photographer. If that was a euphemism for an induced migraine, then the man’s vision was definitely achieved.

The photographer set down his equipment with a huff, as if he wasn’t getting the results he wanted, regardless of his frequent cries of, “Yes! That’s it! Perfect, darling!” Noctis wondered how he didn’t hear himself. No one who could hear themselves talk like that would ever _keep_ talking like that.

The photographer and his entourage of assistants cleared out of the space for lunch. Noctis finally scowled in contempt at the closing studio door. He threw an arm over his eyes against the sterile lights and groaned when he saw bruises in the darkness of his eyelids. Nyx’s voice, drenched in accented condescension, was a sweet balm for his aching skull.

“The camera _adores_ you, my darling! _Work_ that ascot, baby, _work it!_ ” Nyx snorted, tossing his own prop back onto the rack. “That guy is an ascot.”

“Are you trying to make a clever analogy, or do you really just like saying the word ‘ascot?’”

“People realize how sneaky the word ‘ascot’ is, right? There’s easily two insults in there. One, if you get creative with hyphens.”

“You’re a linguistic genius,” Noctis said in a whine. He couldn’t appreciate the artistry of Nyx’s wordplay from behind the imprinted pulse of the camera flash in his head. “I don’t know anything about marketing, but I’m pretty sure this is not how formal wear is meant to be worn.”

“If it’s not, it definitely should be.”

The photographer had him sprawled out on a velvet sofa like a debauched nobleman, limbs loosely arranged across piles of satin pillows and black fur throws. The dress shirt hung half open against his chest, the pricey, soot-black pinstripe made into a disheveled wreck by a man far too touchy for the likes of Noct’s contract. One end was shoved into the unbuttoned waistband of his pants, one sleeve bunched down around his elbow, baring more of his skin for the camera than the sample itself. And the stupid ascot slithered around his throat like a silken snake, lazily looping in a dark violet collar for that arrogant aristocrat in skinny jeans and high-tops to pull on.

“I was really looking forward to another collaboration with you, too,” Noctis sighed, listening to Nyx’s even stride traverse the cage of tripods and lighting rigs.

“You were _dreading_ _it_ ,” Nyx corrected. “Threw a tantrum in your dressing room and threatened to walk, remember?”

“‘ _Cruisers_ Can’t Control Catalogue King-to-be.’”

Noctis couldn’t recite the headline without scowling. Usually, he thought that the forced alliteration splashed across the tabloids was hilarious. Watching the evening blasphemies with Prompto and a package of popcorn was becoming a weekly tradition. But right now, his media mask was living his own fantasy and he hated him for it. What he wouldn’t give to get out of working on this shoot after today.

Warmth and shadow pressed over him, warding off the cold lights and kissing the wrinkles at the bridge of his nose where his scorn for the new photographer gathered the most.

“Do you want me to ruin this twerp’s career for you? Because a little insinuation here and there and I can have him out the door by the end of the week.”

Blunt nails grazed gently down the exposed skin of his chest, tickling up a sigh from the bottom of his lungs. Idle figure-eights were linked across him, warming skin chilled from icy white lights and closed against careless hands. Nyx coaxed the tension out of him from beneath the pads of his fingers, skating along the sloppy fall of the button-down, dancing up to the hollow of his throat, and skimming back down across the flat of his pectoral. Noctis breathed out through his nose, caving beneath the tender ministrations.

“No, don’t do that. He’s a jerk, but I don’t want to cost the kid his job.”

“You’re kinder than I’ve read about.”

Noctis smiled beneath the arm over his eyes. Smiled more when he felt Nyx’s mouth, hot and moist, press against his nipple. His weaving fingers slipped down around his hip, thumbing the slung-down waistband of his pants where the brand on the band of his boxers could peek into a shot for further promotion. Nyx’s free fingers linked with the tired curl of Noct’s over his head, gently guiding his arm from across his eyes. Noctis blinked against the brightness of the studio and Nyx seized his lips in a slow, deep kiss. A softer, liquid velvet. Sweeter satin slipping into his mouth.

“Don’t,” Noctis whispered in a weak voice. “The camera can tell. I always look different when you’re done with me.”

“I think it’ll appreciate my artistic input.”


	4. Heaven is a place on earth with you.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to shoot the fall catalogue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for day five of the [deathbyfluff october challenge](https://nyxnoctocalypse.tumblr.com/post/165381753552/fluffpocalypse-october-2017-prepare-to-die) and for #31 of [this fall prompt list](http://dresupi.tumblr.com/post/165250120349/fallautumn-writing-prompts-for-your-otp)

Noctis paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame to catch his breath. A counter-productive spot to coax his lungs into working order, when Nyx was so close at hand and looking so damn good. He looked up at Noct’s sudden arrival, bemused by his breathless rush. He smiled at him, slow and sympathetic, and taking his time pulling on the shirt for the next set.

“They’re really putting you to work today, huh? Running laps? Thought that was the interns’ jobs.”

“As if I’d ever let an intern sneak this view.”

Noctis drew in his staggered breaths, yanking on the cashmere scarf that just finished getting shot so the air would reach his lungs. Cardio never had been kind to him. And Nyx never did help lower his heart rate, the fucking tease.

Taking _off_ a shirt was one thing. Anticipation was strained with every button nibbled through a hole. Expectation ignited with every shift of fabric over warmed skin. It was purposeful, a singular focus, an artistic suspense that Nyx had mastered well before Noctis had come onto the scene.

But pulling a shirt _on_ … Noctis didn’t know why he was surprised that Nyx could make covering up just as sexy as stripping down.

There were promises in the movements, made just for him. There was a long apology in the languid shrug of sleeves up firm, olive arms. There was a humble vow that he would be allowed to undo what was done, each inch of the washed-out flannel drawing him a road-map of how he could take it off later.

He didn’t think he was a fan of plaid. Certainly not on himself. But damn Nyx if he couldn’t make absolutely _anything_ look good. The shirt looked _shy_ on him. The distressed blues checkered around him in tentative little touches of color. Flannel was soft where Nyx was all hard, taught skin and sinewy muscle. The contrast was what made it. That the casual commonness of the shirt could chasten the provocative cut of his body.

“Your casual-wear spreads were always my favorites,” Noctis told him.

“Is that right?”

Nyx smirked, that slight pull of lips to one side that first made Noct’s pulse race. The shirt hung open as Nyx rolled up the sleeves, carefully abiding by designer instructions and knowing full well that it absolutely _tortured_ Noctis. It was so… domestic. So innocent, and yet so, _so not_. He played dumb so well. It was so “boy next door,” so trash-romance novel, so B-movie rom-com. And Noctis loved the guilty little pleasure without a drop of shame. He watched each deft fold of the sleeve into a neat, wrinkling line at the elbow. He watched fingers roughed with work that a man with his salary never had to do. He watched those eyes look more silver than blue against the subtle dyes of the plaid, and crease at the corners with his crooked smile as Nyx looked at him.

“Were you supposed to retrieve me? Or did you run down here just because you missed me so bad?”

“They need you on set.” Noctis rolled along the doorframe and into the dressing room, shutting the door behind him with a wickedly quiet click. “But I want you here.”

“I just got this on.”

“Didn’t say you had to take it off.”

Nyx paused, midway done rolling up the other sleeve, watching Noctis lope towards him. His grin spread wider, finishing with the sleeve to wrap his bared arms around him. Noctis leaned between the undone buttons of the shirt, pressing against the hot flesh of his chest. His hands gripped the edge of the vanity behind Nyx’s hips, liking the way it creaked when Nyx leaned back into it. He dipped his head forward, caressing a breath over Nyx’s parting lips before pushing against them.

He surprised himself with the slowness of the kiss, the gentle press and pull of flesh caught beneath teeth and skin sliding so carefully across skin. Nyx was hot against him, and his own skin tingled beneath the warm fall outfit, but he liked the laziness of it. The half-dressed languor of Nyx, the delicate softness of the clothes, the fuzzy feeling in his head as he reached up to cup Nyx’s face and press it deeper to his own.

Nyx drew in a breath from Noctis, an almost soundless hiss of air between them, impassioned by the depth of their closeness, how fervently Noctis pressed himself to him in the lulled quiet between barking photographers and cackling camera shutters.

“It’s the fall catalogue,” Nyx murmured between them when Noctis let him breathe on his own. “When do you want to do it?”

Noct’s neck bent to the side, half in curiosity and half to tempt Nyx into kissing it. He was rewarded for both halves, Nyx nosing down the loose scarf around his throat to plant easy kisses and pleading whispers to his skin.

“When do you want to stop sneaking around? Stop pretending that we hate each other? Stop jerking the message-boards around and finally give the finger to the tabloids?”

“You’re really ready to go public?”

“Aren’t you?”

Nyx gazed up at him, eyes wide and entreating and so much like an adoring puppy in a flannel collar that it made Noctis laugh. “I kind of thought you liked the privacy. I know I did.”

“Ah, I see. You just don’t want to share me.”

“Can you really blame me?”

He ran his hands down the open sides of the flannel shirt, bumping the buttons beneath his thumbs and tugging the loose collapse of the fabric into even lines. The gesture put pressure on the collar, gently pressing down on Nyx’s shoulders to bow them beneath Noct’s grin.

“Just a little longer?” Noctis pleaded, mouthing along the braid that curved against his scalp. “Just the two of us? I don’t care who knows. It’s not that I’m ashamed of us. You know that.”

Nyx’s arms squeezed around his waist, making Noctis sigh. He loved that feeling. He loved how secured he felt between those strong arms, pressed possessively against that broad chest, caressed so softly by these lazy, autumn clothes. He’d never said that he loved Nyx, but by the way his moonlight eyes melted like midnight rain as he pressed his forehead to his and kissed him again, he knew that he didn’t have to say it for him to know.

“Okay,” Nyx conceded. “Just the two of us. For as long as it takes for them to figure it out?”

“Might be a while. You okay with that?”

Nyx smiled, as drowsy as the fall of his shirt and wrapping Noctis up in just as much cozy, coveted softness.

“Yeah. More than okay with that.”


	5. My baby lives in shades of blue.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nyx remembers the first time he met Noctis.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Be prepared for a surprise ending. Can also be read & reblogged from my [tumblr.](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/167918805507/en-vogue-my-baby-lives-in-shades-of-blue)

He remembered the night they first met.

He remembered all the pomp and circumstance, the warnings he was given in the breakneck hours preceding the event, and the dread sinking deep into the bottom of his stomach as he made his obligatory waves at the company-approved cameramen set up outside of the building. He remembered feeling so tired, well before the party had even started. He remembered thinking to himself that he was going to need more drinks than his PR team would approve of if he was going to survive this supposedly contentious encounter with the pampered prince of the _Cruisers_.

He remembered all of that, but none of it in as much startling clarity as he remembered the first thing Noctis ever said to him.

“Hey, do you want to get out of here?”

Nyx was good with firsts. He was sentimental like that. His friends would poke and prod and give him hell about it, then put up a stiff lip and try not to let their eyes well up too much when he remembered an anniversary that even they forgot. He knew the value of a moment, something it took him a long time to teach himself to see.

He remembered this moment in particular because it was the first time he really met _Noctis._ And that was important. His _voice_ was important.

For years, the man had just been a picture, a silent muse of polished perfection to embody modern fashion. As dark in demeanor as the sharp, leathern style touted by _Lucian Cruisers,_ “the Prince” was said to be an aloof enigma. “The rebel of the runway,” said Meteor Publishing, a headline that had belonged to Nyx just a few years earlier.

Contrary to the celebrity gossip, Nyx wasn’t jealous of the competition. Entirely contrary, in fact; he was even _eager_ to rise to the challenge. The gossip columns said, with absolute certainty, that he was “hot-tempered,” that he was a “wild rogue of a man” that no label could ever hope to tame. That he was “possessed by a vengeful confidence to regain his favor as fashion’s first knight.”

While Nyx was hardly the provocative firebrand prophesized on the _Kingsglaive_ covers for the media to immolate, likewise, Noctis was not the perpetually pouting sovereign of a teenage dream that his fanbase liked to squeal he was.

Nyx was expecting an orchestrated confrontation, an encounter pushed in front of a conveniently stationed photographer pretending to catch candids. He was dreading the dishonesty of the industry when his prep team coached him through what their new partners were likely to say or do and what they advised he should say and do back. Especially where a cameraman could hear. He wasn’t looking forward to the spectacle that his superiors encouraged for publicity’s sake.

But aside from an introductory handshake and a single burst of camera flashes, Noctis kept his distance and Nyx was more than happy to keep his. He only spoke to him when he knew they were alone, catching Nyx by the elbow on the fringes of the dance floor where the hired cameras had distracted themselves without a prepared drama to film.

“I don’t know about you,” Noctis sighed once the clapping shutters and electronic music was muted behind the glass. “But I have to be around cameras enough when I’m at work.”

He handed Nyx a beer, a blue collar novelty in their couture culture. And considered by most of their peers to be the most affronting accessory to chic sensibilities since the invention of crocs. _Martinis_ were en vogue, as easy to accessorize the elaborate glassware with wild garnishes as it was to slap a leather jacket over a model and call it stylish. White collar cocktails were always a little too… _neon_ for Nyx’s tastes. He worked at a bar for long enough to know what made them glow in the blue and green lights mimicking a dance club at their backs.

“This is my Uncle Weskham’s winter retreat,” Noctis explained when Nyx accepted the beer like it was a lost artifact of ancient civilization, carefully preserved in amber glass and blue paper labels. “I know where he hides the cheap stuff.”

“I’m honored,” Nyx said, pressing the edge of the cap to the balcony railing to pop it off.

Noctis laughed incredulously at the loud snap of the cap coming off and catching in Nyx’s palm. “How the hell did you do that?”

“If you want beer bad enough, you find a way.”

Nyx offered to open Noctis’s bottle up the same way, smiling at the man’s enrapt attention as he found the right angle, applied the right pressure, and popped another cap for his pocket collection. Noctis smiled his thanks, and Nyx was suddenly struck with the thought that he wasn’t talking to the Prince of _Lucian Cruisers_ at all. He had the same trendy hair and soft features coveted by every lighting technician in the business, but he wasn’t the same person in the pictures.

Nyx had never once seen that person smile.

“I wouldn’t have figured you for a beer drinker,” Nyx said after a long drag from the bottle-neck, leaning his elbows against the balcony railing and letting the bottle dangle dangerously in the open air beyond.

There was a pool below them, glowing as blue as toothpaste crystals in the artificial lights hidden somewhere within. It looked the same color as the luminous cocktails spilling across the lavish, dancing silks in the dark windows wrapped all around the complex. The chlorine glow traced cerulean webs across Noctis’s face, the movement of the water casting up lights to float in his eyes.

“I’m not any drinker, really,” Noctis laughed, low and self-deprecating and far more humble than the severe glare of the man in leather and denim portrayed on the billboards all across the city.

“That’s not what you said in the last ad I saw you in,” Nyx ventured to tease.

Noctis snorted in contempt, rolling his eyes as he repeated the brusque lines that constantly scalded across Nyx’s TV screen between commercial breaks. “‘Brand new bold flavor for men who _burn_ ” – he added the effect of fire rising onto the screen by waving his hand through the air – “for bourbon. The Behemoth Brew from Deadeye Distillery. Please drink responsibly.’ It tastes like paint thinner and I almost died.”

Nyx almost choked on his much milder grocery store brand beer at the off-put indifference, pressing the back of his hand to his lips when Noctis arched a fine black brow at him for daring to laugh at his near-death experience. But not even he could keep a straight face, the edges of his lips twitching with the threat of a smile.

“No celebratory toast with the prop bottle afterwards, I take it?” Nyx asked.

“It was fucking apple juice after the first taste test, otherwise I would have had my manager sue them post-mortem.”

“Ah, there’s a little bit of this famed brat prince I’ve heard so much about.”

Noctis scoffed at that and even took a small sip of his own beer, nose wrinkling in obvious distaste. “He had to put in an appearance tonight at least once. And you? I haven’t seen _Kingsglaive’s_ swaggering sycophant stomping around here.”

“ _Sycophant_ , huh? Well, that’s not one I’ve heard before.”

Noctis took a more prolonged gulp of his beer, eyes scrunching shut, but determined to keep his mouth occupied so he couldn’t be pressed for the name of that particular publication. Nyx pursed his lips to keep from laughing. It was such a juvenile expression, like he was still sixteen underneath the faultless maturity of his model persona. Nyx dared to let himself think that it was cute. That he was relieved to find the star of his new collaborators to be so _normal._ It was a rare trait to find in the blinding blackness behind the studio lights. As rare as cheap beer being allowed within ten feet of pressed leather.

“I left the Hero at home,” Nyx assured him. “He’s a total jackass at parties. Probably drinks Behemoth Brew bourbon just to look cool, the jerk.”

Noctis laughed, a melody far more enchanting than the heavy beats pulsing against the windows all around them. The house and all its revelers could be seen by the entire world and smiled big, dopey-drunk grins under the moving dance lights to create a picture of upper-class rebellion for the glass lenses all around them. Nyx liked being to the side of it all, just out of frame instead of being at the center of it. He could see so much clearer.

He could see Noctis, see his smile as it had never been seen through a camera before, see the blue of the pool on his delicate features, the bob of his throat when he swallowed the beer, and the boyish wrinkle of his nose as he waited for the acidic sting of it on the back of his tongue to subside. He liked that he could hear a laugh, any laugh, as gentle and authentic as his. He liked that they weren’t lying for the sake of a story. And he liked that Noctis felt the same.

“I’m sorry that I pulled you away from… all that,” he said then, pausing to cast his gaze back to their co-workers, searching for some way to describe the chaos behind the glass and coming up empty. “I just wanted to say I was looking forward to working with you before they make us put on a show for the press.”

Nyx’s brow furrowed in mock shock, his jaw hanging agape as he gestured an arm back at the hidden paparazzi lurking among the dancers. “What, you mean you _don’t_ enjoy public exploitation for capital gain? I don’t know if you’re in the right business, kiddo.”

“Oh, I know I’m not,” Noctis laughed, a little harsher this time before mellowing down into the companionable murmur that had softened Nyx’s evening. He picked at the damp beer label, collecting condensation the longer it warmed in his palm. “Growing up, I never thought that this was what I would be doing with my adult life.”

“Oh, no? Who latched their hooks in and dragged you down screaming?”

“Nobody,” Noctis laughed, quietly. “Just some friends of my father’s suggested it. I didn’t have anything else going for me at the time so, I figured I could give it a shot. Make a couple paychecks and be out to do what I really wanted.”

“But now you can’t get out, right?”

Noctis lifted his brow and let it fall, a cynical ghost of a smile on his pale lips. It was a common story that Nyx heard, one that he promised himself he wouldn’t be written into like the rest. Watching Noctis scrape at the label and trace lost dreams in the wetness on the glass made Nyx’s moniker as _Kingsglaive’s_ “Hero” feel like an insult.

“What do you really want to do?” he said to fill the silence.

Noctis spared him a small glance, not meeting his eyes when he did beneath the shadowed tumble of his hair. He bit his lip, afraid to open his mouth and confess the truest part of himself in a place filled with the most untrue faces on the planet. Nyx helped him by confessing his own truth.

“I just wanted to be a bartender.”

Noctis quirked a brow at him, entirely disbelieving before the slow nod of amused embarrassment convinced him that Nyx was telling the truth. “No kidding?”

“No kidding. I worked in one a while back. Simple, stupid, and right up my alley. Still think I might go back one day and buy the old place if it’s still there.” He nudged his elbow into Noctis’s on the banister. “Your turn. What does _Noctis_ want to be when the Prince is done cashing his paychecks?”

Noctis hesitated for just a moment longer before ducking his head and shifting his feet to gain a stronger stance. “When I was a kid, I always dreamed that I’d grow up to be a vet. Help animals, or something close to it, at least.”

“That’s so sweet!”

“Shut up…”

“No, I mean it,” Nyx insisted. “I think it’s great. And, hey, you never know. It’s not too late to give it a try.”

Noctis snorted. “At this point, I feel like I’m going to get more people asking for autographs in the office than I’ll get pets. But, yeah, you’re right. It’s never too late.”

He smiled at him again, small and shy, but weightless. A little brighter in the dark blue light aglow on his face. Like he’d just dug himself out of an avalanche to bring him something as simple as a smile.

Nyx didn’t know if he fell in love with him on the spot and that was why he remembered it so clearly. He remembered all of his moments with Noctis like he remembered that first one. He remembered the first time he saw him in catalogue jeans, thrown half-naked across the lawn of a fake log cabin and smoldering at the camera before chancing him a small grin of greeting between takes. He remembered the first time they kissed behind the scenes of a joint interview where they were both so nervous to keep up appearances that it just… happened. He remembered the first time they fucked, the first time he made him breakfast in his apartment, the first time they had dinner together, the first picture they took of just the two of them… He remembered being in love with him for every moment.

But he never remembered saying that he did. He couldn’t remember the first time he said, “I love you.” Because he never had.

When the headlights screamed into the corner of his eye and metal screamed over him after, he spent the whole screech and slide of car parts and gasoline across the freeway cursing at himself that the first time he remembered he should say he loved Noctis was the last time he might ever get the chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *twiddles thumbs* You should, erm, comment and let me know what you think *coughs*


	6. I'll run to you, I'll run, run, run.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He thought he was immortal. He thought he had all the time in the world..._

As far as accidents went, the doctor said that “it could have been worse.” As if that was supposed to make Nyx feel any better about being rammed across three lanes of Insomnian traffic in the middle of the night.

He knew that she was just trying to put him at ease. Dr. Fleuret was nice, pragmatic, and efficient, most of all. He was barely there an hour before he was all patched up, prescribed painkillers and bed rest, and was ready to be discharged.

He was lucky, is what he thought she should have told him. He was lucky to have friends that didn’t let him move to Insomnia for a modeling career by himself, that kept him down-to-earth enough to know what to spend a big paycheck on, and that had plenty of input on motor vehicle safety for convincing him to get a domestic tank to survive Insomnia’s treacherous highways. It was too heavy to flip, like a hit from that speed should have done. It was too thick to cleave in half, had too many automatic safety features to let him take the full brunt of the hit, and liked him too much not to let itself get killed before him.

He came out of the whole thing with some cuts and bruises. He’d only needed stitches for a gash on his head that did more bleeding than traumatic damage. It wasn’t even expected to scar.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Ulric,” Dr. Fleuret assured him. “Your face will be just as photogenic as ever. You’ll still have a career when you wake up tomorrow.”

They were both trained to smile for any circumstances, but she had him beat on this one. He knew that his was shaky in spite of his best efforts to school it into a solid curve.

It wasn’t that bad, she was completely right. He should count himself fortunate, be grateful that his one accident in ten years wasn’t so much worse than it could have been, and carry on. Thank the good doctor for her aid, arrange assistance for the other driver’s expenses, and wait to heal.

The press would dramatize the whole thing, no doubt. Villainize the young man in the other vehicle and call for Nyx’s lawyers to press charges until he put his face in front of the cameras himself to explain that it was just an accident. All he really wanted to say was that they should all just back the fuck off.

If he didn’t, Libertus just might. After he calmed down enough to stop pacing the room and accusing all Lucian drivers as being serial killers with the excuse of roadway “accidents” to get away with murder.

“I told you they were all crazy!” he said, and had been saying for years. Insomnia’s traffic had been one of the most horrific things about the city when they moved down from Galahd. At last, he was validated.

Nyx knew that he was just talking to distract himself. He didn’t really mean any of the accusations he wanted to level at the other driver. They all knew the facts, they all knew that no one could be blamed for inclement weather and icy roads, and Nyx knew it made his friend feel better to have someone to blame for making him worry until his panic burned off. Otherwise, if there was no one to blame then, it was something that was out of his control. Something that he couldn’t rationalize or plan for to protect Nyx in the future.

Libertus was just scared for him. He was scared of dangers that he couldn’t prevent. And while Nyx knew that he was fine, he was still scared too.

Little accidents always begot bigger fears.

It wasn’t the kind of fear he could share with Libs, wasn’t something that he could add onto their mutual distrust of Lucian driving. It wasn’t even something he could share with Dr. Fleuret that could be remedied with some extra medication and a session with the hospital’s therapist.

It wasn’t the roads that scared him. It wasn’t cars, it wasn’t drivers, it wasn’t black ice in the dead of winter. He would be back behind the wheel when the stitches were gone and the doctor deemed him safe to drive. He would buy a new car, but the same car – with Libs’s seal of safety approved – and he would keep driving as consciously as he ever did.

He was afraid of losing time. It was a hollowing, isolating fear, and it made no sense that he couldn’t share it with either of the two people pacing in and out of his room to make sure he was safe, because he knew it was a fear that everyone shared. But there was no cure for it. No words that could console it. Only time, the thing itself that he feared losing, could assuage that dread of never having enough.

He’d tried to stay humble. He’d tried to stay true to who he was, growing up in his modest little house with his ordinary little family on his tiny little islands. He worked hard not to see the man in the magazines in his reflection each day. He’d tried to keep them separate once it became clear that people wanted to see one more than the other, no matter how much he preferred the other.

And yet, despite all his best efforts, he’d let himself think he was immortal. He’d let himself believe that he had all the time of eternity, that he didn’t have to rush for anything, that things would come to him rather than force him to chase after them.

The smell of burning rubber reminded him that he was mortal. That he could bleed across the untouched shine of the god in the pictures. That his time was constrained to a clock. And he was wasting a lot of it.

Noctis did not.

Nyx heard him before he saw him. He heard the frantic rise of noise in the hallway – everything sounded louder in a hospital. He heard the hiss and squeak of leather boots scurrying across the linoleum, the metal clap of buckles and zippers and thin silver chains, the deliberately muted grumble of Gladio at his heels, entirely too self-conscious of how loud his own voice sounded in the silent halls.

When Noctis cut into the doorway, Nyx felt crashed into all over again.

Time was forgiving, just this once. It gave him just enough to languish over the sight of him, before being plunged beneath the warmth of him.

He was as white as the snow gathering against the windowpanes, his cheeks bright pink and blasted by winter winds. All in black – Nyx’s favorite – and straight from the end of a shoot with faint, smudged stains of make-up rushed off from under his eyes.

He was wearing a face that Nyx had never seen on him before. It wasn’t fashionable. Didn’t complement his leather and denim ensemble. He’d seen him modeling that line before. Nyx knew all of the expressions that were recommended to complete the look. He knew the apathetic hood of a glare that was meant to top off the slimmed-down leather jacket. He knew the devilish twist of the lips that best accessorized with the tailored jeans.

This wasn’t a seasonal stare. This was _raw_ , this was _Noct_. And it was terror. It had no filters, no layers of corrective coloring, no digital masks of airbrushed perfection to make a prettier picture.

This was ugly. This was all harsh, stiff lines, all knotted creases in his face, all wide, blanched eyes and the curdled asymmetry of fear. This wasn’t the perfect, controlled portions of feeling the camera parodied and promised the public they could have a taste of if they put themselves in his over-priced shoes.

This was all of Noctis that the cameras didn’t want. This was messy and vulnerable and, right now, it was the most beautiful sight Nyx had ever seen.

Noctis ran across the room as if there was no one else in it. There might as well not have been. He snapped his arms around him and didn’t let go.

Nyx’s bones were still rattled from the collision and still throbbed beneath the blunting mist of the doctor’s medication, but nothing felt better than Noctis clutching every bruise in his embrace. It was a warm ache. Like the bleed of a smooth bourbon through his chest. The hospital was cold and clinical, but Noctis was flushed and soft and assailed by delicate tremors.

Nyx’s arms lifted to steady him, folding around his waist and closing him in close. The terrible feeling of losing too much time had carved him out and left him empty for Noctis to fill up again with his bruising devotion. His breaths shivered and collapsed in his ear, hot and balmy against the clammy cool of his skin.

It felt too good to have him here. He was all he’d wished the doctors would give him and knew they couldn’t prescribe. He was the first number he’d thought to call before the nurse dialed his emergency contact. The worried wrath on Libertus’s face had been such a sweet relief, but he still wished for Noctis.

He still had to make up for all the firsts he’d been afraid he wouldn’t get to have with him. He still had to tell him that he loved him, that he wanted him always, that he was his most honest self with him, and that he wanted to be that man all the time. He wanted to be the person that Noctis told his secret dreams to, that looked at him with the careful tenacity of a man who could have whatever he wanted, but was afraid to take it if he thought that he didn’t earn it. He wanted to be the man that Noctis felt brave with, that Noctis kicked “the Prince” from his bed for, the man that, maybe, Noctis would consider as much his love as Nyx considered him.

He felt wetness against his neck then. It took him far too long to realize that Noctis was crying. In all the time he’d known him, not once, not ever, had Nyx seen him cry.

He’d seen him sad, of course. It was a subtle kind of sadness, something he carried just beneath his clothes to match their somber attitude. He was coated in a melancholic glaze, an authentic accessory all his own that the brand could effortlessly exploit without even meaning to. He kept it well hidden, pressed it down beneath his black glamor, and let just enough of it steep into his style to feel like he was real when he was playing the part.

But he’d never allowed himself this kind of excess. He’d always been in control of it, had always been strong enough to carry it _beneath_ his skin and never above it. And yet… little accidents; big fears.

He didn’t know where Libs went. Or Gladio, for that matter. He barely remembered that he had heard him coming up the hall with Noct. He wondered if Noctis told him on the way to the hospital. He hoped that Libertus wasn’t angry and really hoped they weren’t fighting down in the lobby. He hoped that, if they were, Dr. Fleuret would have them sedated. That would be a funny way to end a stressful evening. Maybe funny enough to get Noct to stop crying.

He was trying so hard not to let anyone see, face pressed hard to Nyx’s throat and arms locked firmly against anything outside of just the two of them. He cried quiet, but he cried deep, soul-shuddering sobs, strangling himself around Nyx a little tighter with every inhale. Nyx squeezed him back just as tight where he fit against his chest, wanting to press all the warmth of Noct’s body into his to mend his sore muscles. Knit together all his cuts, soothe away all his bruises, and blot out his memory of the crash with nothing but this feeling. He was safe, he was warm, and he had his time to just hold the man he loved.

“I’m okay,” Nyx murmured, as quietly as he could in the crisp silence.

He turned tenuous circles in the small of his back, coaxing him ever closer and warmer and until he couldn’t feel his own body anymore. Just Noct’s chest against his heart, his hips locked against the insides of his thighs where he sat at the edge of the bed, the sharp angle of his shoulder-blade beneath his palm as he smoothed comforts along his back. Nyx breathed in new leather and cologne – a little bit of balsam, just the right balance of cozy and wild for the winter months. He could smell the clean tang of the snow on his skin and the trickle of salt in his tears.

Nyx whispered affirmations to him for as long as it took to stave off the shaking. Noctis pried himself off like Velcro, adhering to Nyx for as long until someone ripped him all the way off. His eyes were all shadows and damp, red around the edges and wrinkled with anguish. He reached his sleeve up to drag it across his tears and cursed when he nearly scratched himself with the decorative zipper along the cuff.

“I fucking hate this designer,” he croaked, suddenly and irrationally furious.

Nyx took his wrist and pulled his hand to his lips, kissing the heel of his palm and curling his fingers up from the fist they were forming to kiss just below each nail.

“They make you look really good though.”

His lips twitched with a scowl and some biting remark about how little he cared about looking good. But he didn’t have the strength to abhor dumb fashion design right now. Especially not when Nyx craned his neck forward to kiss the messy well of tears in the hollow beneath his eye, then his swollen red nose from sniffling and bolting through the freezing parking lot, then against his trembling lips, pushing urgently, without any more ceremony, and begging for him.

Noctis drew in one more halting breath and kissed him back hard, cupping his hands around his face and dragging them each in as deep and dangerous as they could go.

Nyx was so ready to tell him every little flashbang thought that blinded him in his slide across the freeway. He was ready to confess doped-up love notes into his skin, ready to let his absent inhibitions entreat with Noctis to love him back. Noctis beat him to talking, and that was for the best. He wanted to be clear when he told him. He didn’t want the painkillers there to make him doubt that he was saying it right, or give Noctis an excuse not to believe him.

Noctis steadied himself, blinking hard to purge the rest of his tears before pulling himself up straight and calling on any strength he’d learned from his billboard counterpart to get him through the rest of this.

“I’m taking you home with me.”

Libertus wouldn’t like that. None of his friends at _Kingsglaive_ would. But he could talk to Libs, and Libs could talk to them, just for this one night. The world could wait until tomorrow. The caustic web of questions could ferment while he took his solace. He was entitled to it, after all. He was hit by a fucking car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad so, I pushed this up my to-do list. Let me know that you survived long enough to read this chapter! I worry about you, truly (ʘ‿ʘ✿) Can also be read on [tumblr!](http://jazzraft.tumblr.com/post/168161160682/en-vogue-ill-run-to-you-ill-run-run-run)


	7. It's enough to be young and in love.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath, it's only safe to take off the smile once the door closes.

“Thanks for taking care of me, Doc. I promise I’ll be going to good hands.”

Dr. Fleuret had warned him that, while he showed no signs of psychological distress, nevertheless, he may feel a small amount of discomfort getting into a car again so soon after the crash.

Nyx was pretty sure she’d reconsider the validity of his psychological diagnosis if he said aloud just how excited he really was to get back on the road. At the risk of being held overnight for observation, he kept the full extent of his enthusiasm to himself, and merely smiled in honest – though weary – gratitude.

She said he might feel ill at ease, but Nyx never felt safer as Noctis warmed up the engine.

He’d been more afraid that they would’ve had to wade through a swarm of people in hospital parking. He’d feared that the news might have breached the private walls his press team had never before needed to put up in the event of an emergency. He’d been afraid of his precious time being chewed away by frantic questions and the ill-intentioned calls for the other driver’s head on the end of a pike.

The cool quiet had been a much kinder welcome from the hollow halls of the hospital. And the plush breath of the leather seats in Noct’s car held him as intimately as his own lover behind the wheel.

Nyx was grateful for the quiet. Although he should have had more than his fair share in his hospital room, that had been the kind of quiet which made his head ache more than if a construction team was hammering in the next room over.

Whether it was his own voice inside his head, or the strained growls of his friend fretting a rut into the linoleum floor, or the hushed tones of the hospital staff ghosting in and out to check his charts, the sterile whispers had all been too loud to Nyx’s ears. The frenetic pace of his thoughts, of Libs’ stress, of the nurses’ patient fuss… It was the little things that banged at him the loudest.

This was different, better. This was calm. This was a quiet he was more comfortable with. More familiar.

This was Noct’s quiet.

This was the smooth hum of an engine he could hear from a mile away, revving his heart right out of his chest as it approached him on the sidewalk, at the airport, at the stoop of his apartment.

This was the hidden talk of the city, car horns and music and billboards purring all around them, and yet always sounding so far away at the 3AM hour when it was just the two of them awake to cruise through the streets in midnight anonymity.

This was the measured breaths of a man struggling to pull on a mask to control his panic. This was the strain of white knuckles over the vinyl steering wheel, the imperceptible shift of the little metal fixtures on his jacket when his muscles tensed at every turn signal.

Nyx liked this quiet because it was unique to Noctis. He knew that he was there, no matter how silent, no matter if he didn’t turn his eyes to look at him. He knew how Noctis occupied space, felt how he moved before they ever touched. He could smell him like a wolf with its imprints, breathing in the subtle notes that no one but him could recognize for how close one needed to be to notice. That right was reserved for Nyx alone.

Nyx liked a quiet that he could share. He liked the companionship. He liked being able to hear Noct’s thoughts.

Noctis was scared and he was sad and he was angry, and he was driving through a hundred red lights in his head, crashing into all the gruesome possibilities of “what if it had been worse?” His face was as stark white as the crumbles of snow smashed beneath the windshield wipers. The neon kaleidoscope of the city slid across his eyes like glass, cold and colorless where the lush blues used to absorb the night shades to dance until daylight traded the dark pigments for the colors of dawn.

When Noctis trapped himself in his own head like that – pulled closed the curtains and dragged up the covers – his skin grew harder, like he was made of marble, to wall off the world from catching him at his weakest. The Prince of the _Cruisers_ strutted into the vacant spotlight, wielding his trademarked scowl like a sword. He wore his leather like armor, the tears in his jeans like battle-scars warning discerning eyes of what he could survive, with an ice-white glare to match.

Nyx reached across the console to press a touch to his knee. All it took was one to melt away the magazine cover.

Nyx felt him soften, saw the cold leech out of him on one long, silent exhale. He saw the blue in his eyes well back up with the water. Noctis blinked a few times to keep the wave from cresting, jamming his lips together to keep back the sob. He released one hand from the wheel to hold Nyx’s.

He did not once take his eyes off of the road.

* * *

The standard prescription for recovering from an automobile accident dissuaded against “strenuous activity.” Sex was likely considered to fit under that umbrella. But Noctis was slow and tender in spite of how fiercely he “needed to feel that he was real.”

It didn’t hurt because Nyx was banged up and bruised a little bit. It hurt because Noctis was so afraid that he might have lost him that it wasn’t enough to just touch Nyx to know he was really there. That he was really safe. That he’d really come home to him after the terror of a call he never thought he’d get.

Nyx felt the fear in every tremor of his body. No matter how well he tried to hide it, blurring the razor’s edge of hysteria with the low verses of their love-making, Nyx could feel it, see it, hear it in the sounds he didn’t make and the touches Noctis rushed through his hair over and over again like he needed to count every single strand. Make sure he hadn’t lost a single piece of him.

After, the quiet was lidded with the coarse catches of breath and the sweetest, jelly-soft ache spread throughout Nyx’s bones. Noct’s apartment was dark and silent, the moonlight bouncing up from the sheets of snow and city lights to stain the high-rise room in winter blues. Rare were the times that Nyx was able to sneak up to Noct’s tower, unreached by the world that demanded the Prince as its own. Nyx got vertigo when he looked out those huge windows, the change in perspective so severe from his low little apartment hidden closer to the earth.

Noctis liked to be high. Tonight especially, he liked the both of them to be as far away from the roads as he could take them. They were so high up that they couldn’t hear the midnight traffic. No car horns or tire squeals or engine roars. Just airplanes floating through the snowdrops, and two raw heartbeats screaming in the stillness.

The smallest shift still felt too fast in the immobile indigo. It felt like hours that Noctis had laid next to him in the feverish twilight of his affirmations. And yet, it felt like too few seconds once he sat up and pulled away from him. Nyx could feel the chill from the snowfall outside rushing in to fill the space he left behind. Noctis cited his departure with a muttered “too cold” and pawed through the sheets for a shirt.

He was a ghost of both his selves tonight, haunting his own home like he was the stranger in it. The crash might not have killed Nyx, but something in Noctis had been torn across that freeway in his stead. He sat shrunken in on himself, his spine crushed between his shoulders, every vertebrae shivering beneath skin so pale Nyx could see straight through him. He could see his very heart trembling red beneath his ribs, see the eyes he turned away from him burning around the edges.

Nyx skated a thumb along the deep canals of Noct’s back, expecting the rigid marble screen to relent, for Noct to loose himself to his touch, trust him to be gentle with his coveted skin. But instead, Noctis shivered and pulled on Nyx’s shirt in a hurry, as if he couldn’t stand the feel of his own naked skin bared to the airy apartment. As if, even this high up, there were still a thousand eyes turned above to probe him for every fault he dared to hide.

Nyx frowned, levering himself up on an elbow. He held the hem of the shirt between thumb and forefinger, pressed his thigh to Noct’s hip beneath the covers. He wasn’t ready to lose the contact. There hadn’t been enough time yet to tell him…

“I’m okay, Noct,” he said, the smallest whisper sounding like a shout after the prolonged silence.

“I’m not.”

His voice was a tattered piece of silk bunched between his lips, like he was being held hostage by his own words, bound and gagged and forcing his throat to bleed if they couldn’t be given another way out. He sat collared to the captor of mortality, made unable to beg for release, merely tied to suffer the harsh hand pulling on his leash.

They were both so used to being in control, being a part of a plan. Between the clothes and the cameras, there was a pattern that each of them fit into. They put themselves in the handcuffs of high fashion with a wink and a smirk. They let themselves be tied into denim and leather and silk, and all for the pleasure of submitting to the desires of catalogue voyeurs.

And on the days where the camera frame felt like a cage, they had the keys to escape whenever they wanted to. They set the rules of the game, letting the marketers and photographers nudge them around the board, playing the part of pawns when the world knew they were kings. They were right where they wanted to be. They knew that it was all in their own hands. They knew they were safe.

But a crash… But the transient snare of death…

“I can’t see past it,” Noctis gasped, strangled beneath the hands of time they’d nearly lost. “When they said you were in an accident… What if you hadn’t made it out? I keep replaying it in my head and I can’t see past if they told me you weren’t coming home. I can’t see anything…”

His voice rose higher until it cracked under the pressure of those unseen hands and collapsed. Nyx couldn’t pry them off, couldn’t cut the knots scraping into his skin, couldn’t give him the keys to get himself out of this prison.

“I hate this,” Noctis said, viciously, clawing at the tears he likewise couldn’t tame. “What the _fuck_.”

_I should be better than this,_ Nyx heard him keep to himself. _I should be stronger. I’m a goddamn king in this town. And he doesn’t cry._ He wanted so badly to fall behind his made-up face. He wanted to be that unfeeling porcelain effigy, wear his fearless features and leave himself to burn on the inside where no one could watch. He wanted to pull back on the chain. He wanted to bite the hand that smothered him.

“It’s just us, Noct,” Nyx said, bunching the hem of his shirt in his hand – black, plain T-shirt, subtly variegated with thin threads of gray, stretchy and soft and twice the size on Noctis. Nyx told himself that was why he looked so small. So pale. “ _Us,_ Noct. I’m right here.”

“What if you weren’t?”

Noctis turned his head towards the window, ignoring the gentle tug on the shirt. Nyx caught the corner of his eye, a sallow blue in the gloom. Noctis dropped his hands into his lap, and the dead weight of his anger with them. For a moment, everything emptied out of him, and he was left with a resigned, vacant look on his face.

He asked nothing in particular, “What am I doing?”

He looked like he was on a string, ready to snap. He sat swaying on a precipice of something too high up for even Nyx to reach. He had to bring him back down to the world that he knew. He needed to steady him back on solid ground. Pluck him from the clouds his pedestal set him above and make him feel the earth beneath his feet.

Nyx tugged on his shirt again, more insistent this time. He took the leash out of those hard hands. He had to share the Prince with the world, but _Noct_ was _his_ , only. He refused to let him be held by such a cruel master. He refused to let him stay scared.

The pull forced Noctis to blink out of his haze. He glanced at Nyx, but looked no less lost when he asked him, “What are we doing?”

“Come back down here and I’ll tell you.”

Noctis wasn’t afraid of heights because he wasn’t afraid to fall. Not when Nyx promised to catch him. He settled back down on the bed, facing Nyx in the blue dark. Nyx carded his fingers through his hair, teasing errant locks back and forth until he convinced him that it was just the two of them there. There were no cameras to catch his flaws. There were no doctors to pass on bad news. There were no drivers, no press; no reapers creeping in the shadows to take away their pretty heads for trophies.

It was just the two of them, just like it always was behind the curtain. Like in the darkness behind the studio lights. Like in the space between the sample racks. This dark was just for them. The lights were off and they came alive.

“I know you’re scared,” Nyx said. “Trust me, I’m fucking terrified, too. But if we think about what ifs for the rest of our lives, we’ll both go insane.”

“I think I’m already there.”

Nyx breathed out a laugh, choppy and unrefined. Noctis’s smile was a weak one too, but he had a hard time keeping it down when Nyx laughed, no matter how rough it was for the both of them.

“If I came out of this with anything, it wasn’t so much a fear of death, but a lust for life. For you. For everything we haven’t done. Are too afraid to do. All I could think about during the crash was everything I haven’t told you.”

“Keeping secrets from me, Ulric?” Noctis smiled and sniffled through the last dregs of his tears.

“It’s no secret that I love you… right?”

He needed to know. He needed Noctis to know. He weakened on the last word, heard how his voice pleaded so pitifully. He’d made him feel loved, hadn’t he? All those stolen moments, all those sultry nothings spoken in expensive hotel rooms, all the little pieces of their secret selves they showed each other… He had to know that he loved him for every single one, didn’t he?

Noctis looked at him for a long time, eyes traveling along every lane of Nyx’s face. His eyes were blue. His skin was soft beneath the fall of his hair. He was still a little red around the edges, still bruised by the abusive idea of how quickly and cruelly all of this could be taken away from him. But he didn’t have to fight the words past his lips this time.

“It’s no secret that I love you too, right?”

Of course not. Silly of him to ask, wasn’t it?

Nyx draped an arm along Noct’s side and urged him closer. His shirt spilled off of Noctis’s shoulder when he moved, drawing Nyx in like a hypnotist’s spell. He nuzzled into his yielding flesh, sighing into the familiar heat he felt sloughing away the icy crown that bore down on them both.

This was all he wanted. The lights in his eyes, the bills in his bank, the name and the face and the skin that earned it all could stay dead in the mangled metal of his car for all he cared. This was real to him in a way cameras and catalogues could never capture.

This was all he craved. To be laid bare, to be seen and be unashamed for stripping off all of his clothes. To share his exposed soul and be vulnerable next to the naked spirit that filled in all his faults.

“We’re okay,” Nyx promised him, soothing away the last quaking doubts, kissing a balm into the angry marks left by the bonds that held Noctis away from Nyx.

“And everyone knows it now.”

Noctis sighed, laying his cheek against his chest, hot clouds of breath warming his flesh. They had tonight, but tomorrow reality would catch up to them.

All their friends would have questions. The phones would fill with messages, the blog headers would be big and bold, the blurry cell phone shots that none of them had caught in their desperate grapple to be together would escape to the press. He was sure there was at least one sneaked out from the hospital parking lot. Where Noctis held his hand all the way to the car because he was afraid of losing him to the asphalt.

“We were always going to tell them,” Nyx said, ruffling the fronds of Noct’s hair with his breath. “We’ll make it okay.”

“I don’t think I’m ready to share you. Not after this.”

“You won’t have to.”

Noctis tilted his head up to meet his eyes. His own were so tired, dark and hollow and sore. But they were blue. That was enough for Nyx. He pressed a kiss to his forehead and squeezed him close, promising not to let go if he fell asleep. He had plans. He had his life and his love and he wasn’t giving them to anyone else.

“I think it’s time we showed the world who we really are.”


	8. Take off all of your clothes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Naked in his raggedy old clothes. Stripped down to the barest parts of himself, the ugly parts, shabby chic and learning to love himself for his reflection again. There's a power to vulnerability in Nyx Ulric's kiss.

“Happy freaking New Year, Prince Charming.”

“Still on Gralea time, ‘Nea?”

Aranea nettled his name into the tablet, glaring wearily at the clock on the top that continued to remind her she was a long way from adjusting to the new time zone. Damn hemispheres. Noctis made a mental note to send her a coffee care package.

“The jetlag might be murder, but you’ve got to hand it to the Nifs,” she said. “Might not look like the wildest bunch that side of the western continent, but damn do we know how to have a holiday.”

“Worth rushing through airport security on a hangover twice in one day?”

“Oh no, sorry stranger, looks like you’re not on the list after all,” Aranea drawled in vengeful indifference. “Only A-list celebrities, no back shelf brand boys here. Guess I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Noctis forged a devastated scoff, whipping off the proverbial aviators the Prince was known for sporting in even the most sunless of climates. “Let me just get your supervisor on the phone, then!”

That got her to laugh, if not over his exaggerated acting, then at least over imagining the method with which her boss would likely gore him for wasting all of their time.

“How is Claire?” he asked while Aranea confirmed his arrival.

“Oh, you know, the usual holiday madness. Roped into another impromptu runway walk,” she chuckled, dutifully ignoring the rampant deluge of scathing texts vibrating in her back pocket, no doubt begging for the mercy of an excuse to bolt back into the security office – a suspicious package, a fire alarm, a fender bender in the underground garage, _anything._ But such was the curse of being the most aesthetically aloof chief of security caught back stage when a model’s ankle went out right before she was ready to walk.

“No mercy for your ol’ boss?”

“When I could be standing here doing nothing on thirty minutes of sleep, talking to you? You know I wouldn’t trade our chats for a Vuitton shoot, pretty boy.”

She jerked her head towards the door with a nod and a yawn, cutting it off with a short yell to wake herself up for the next security check. Noctis made her promise to send him the shots of her boss’s derelict shoot so he could send the woman a condolence card and a bottle of whiskey. He still had one last favor left with Deadeye Distilleries.

The security guard was never necessary, especially not at Iggy’s place – for a high-profile designer, he was the most low-profile personality Noctis had ever met. But whether they were all one foot in the grave or not, Aranea’s abrasive presence was always a point of delight for Noctis’s VIP attendance checks. If he could serve back her blistering wit at the door, he could make it through any vapid gathering of strangers for the sake of a photo op.

Fortunately, this wasn’t that kind of party. And even if it were, Ignis always seemed to find him after he’d taken but one step and not one more into his penthouse. Noctis had barely scanned the small pool of guests milling about the floor when the designer had made himself an accessory of Noct’s arm, a technique developed over years of evasive maneuvers in order to avoid the cloying questions of the over-curious.

“You’re earlier than I would have expected,” Ignis said, contrary to the immediacy with which he snapped himself to his side, suggesting he’d been anticipating his arrival for far longer than Noct’s RSVP had promised.

“Being fashionably late isn’t very fashionable,” Noctis said.

“I believe there’s about a decade of film history that would disagree with you there.”

“You mean a decade of brutes in badly tailored coats. Besides, I had to get here early. Before you burned my order in a crime of artistic passion.”

“As if I’d ever abide such clichés.”

Noctis bumped a hip into his for the dramatic sigh, then allowed himself to be directed towards Iggy’s atelier while the other guests were occupied. It was Noct’s burden to wear, whether it was a work of Iggy’s standard of genius or not. And besides, for once the point _wasn’t_ to be applauded.

“I must say,” Ignis started when the studio doors clicked shut behind them, locking them into his immaculate little box of fabrics and measuring tapes. “I was skeptical about your whole ‘au naturel’ direction at the start.”

“So you’ve told me. Many times. Not just the start.”

“You’ll be relieved to hear that this is the end.”

“Is that right?” Noctis chuckled. “Finally clicked with your artistic vision?”

“Hardly,” Ignis snorted – somehow, he made even such a crass noise sound elegant. “I merely appreciate your stylistic integrity as a fellow peer of decent menswear. I’d be mad to implement such banality into a line of my own…”

“Which is why I keep your name off the receipts.”

“Good man.”

Ignis plunged into the jungle of mannequins, standing along the walls in militant lanes of half-dressed excellence, sporting bobby-pin battle-scars and penned-in badges designating the ranks of measurements. The designer called an old, veteran body to the front, rolling the battered and battle-tested torso up for Noct’s assessment.

The over-shirt looked even more faded on the weathered mannequin than when he brought it in, but Noctis rather liked it that way, maintaining the lived-in look that made it unique to him. It looked _worn_ , which – ironically enough – seemed to be the entire opposite of what a business dealing in clothes wanted to offer. Wear one outfit for more than one day and every article of clothing in it was suddenly deemed “overdone.” As if a faux pas was as atrocious of a crime as punching a shelter puppy.

Noctis missed having a favorite shirt. One that he could wear every day, everywhere, and not care who looked twice. Because he wasn’t wearing it for _them_. He missed having a shirt that was just for him. He missed having a shirt stained with years of accidents and elbow-breaking efforts to scrub each one out. He missed sitting on top of the washing machine, kicking his heels against the door, as he watched his father try to decipher the labels on the tags to ensure that whatever he used to wash it with wouldn’t ruin it forever.

He missed taking care of something, not because it would cost him a college debt to reimburse, but because it was richer in memories than it was in price tags. He missed being able to point to each rip and tear and tell the self-deprecating story that came with every one of them. He missed feeling like himself, missed being comfortable in his own clothes, missed something that made him feel good in his own skin without meeting the couture criteria of higher fashion.

He missed when his closet used to just be the accessory to his life, not the whole outfit.

The shirt was a washed-out navy blue – already a condemned color from the monochromatic style he’d made his fortune from. The frayed ends he’d gouged through with his nervous, teenage hand-wringing had been restored – with a little artful distressing here and there to make it _just the right_ amount of grungy. Ignis had sewn up the improvised thumbholes in the sleeves, tightened up the washer-stretched threads that were nearly see-through from too many years in the permanent press cycle, and he’d rethreaded the dangling or deceased buttons that used to make the front look so disorganized.

“If it fits right, _maybe_ I’ll let you walk it out of here.”

“In front of all those people?” Noctis gasped. “For everyone to see that the great Specs Designs tailored a _department store_ brand?”

“Keep up that attitude and you’ll be wearing it out of here in a body bag.”

“I don’t think the plastic would agree well with the cotton.”

Fortunately for the shirt – and Noct’s own mortality – it fit as perfectly as when he was fifteen, modeling to himself in the dressing room mirror at Roen, and loving the way he looked without ever having picked up a fashion magazine in his life. He thought that he was looking straight at that spindly kid again in the studio mirror today.

“It brings out your eyes,” Ignis mused over his shoulder, smoothing out any last minute imperfections as Noctis slid into the sleeves.

Noctis smiled at his reflection. He almost didn’t recognize himself when he did. It had been a long time since he’d worn something that didn’t demand a scowl or a strut to go with it. Longer still since he was not complimented on how his ass looked in those jeans or how his figure slimmed in that shirt.

“Do I have your seal of approval then?” he asked Iggy’s reflection, shifting obediently wherever his fingers feathered in search of any faults.

“It was a long, tortuous process, but I do believe this is as close to its former glory as I can make it.”

“Thanks, Specs. What do I owe you?”

“This one’s on the house.”

“For ‘a long, _tortuous_ process?’ Come on, I think I owe you for that.”

“And I owed you for the coffee stain.” Iggy’s lips curled up at the edges in wry remembrance, dragging his fingers down one side of buttons. Noctis couldn’t imagine what manner of steaming and scrubbing he’d had to go through to make the former brown ghost disappear completely. “I still remember when I spilled it on this.”

“Which is why I wouldn’t trust anybody else to fix it.”

“Just don’t trade the coffee stain for a champagne one when you’re mingling tonight.”

“I’ll pay you with being careful then.”

“Deal.”

Ignis stopped to survey his work with one last brusque glance, then surprised Noctis by stepping in for a hug. Human expressions of affection tended to wrinkle silk, satin, and all the other over-priced delicacies of high fashion. Such brazen, full-armed contact was almost as precious in their line of work as cashmere.

“I’ll miss you while you’re away,” Ignis confessed.

“It’s only a little vacation, Specs,” Noctis chuckled, but he hugged him back anyway.

“Still. While you’re off reveling in post-publicized romance, I’m abandoned to the amateurs and the upstarts they’ll scramble with to fill your place.”

“Glad I’m still your favorite, Iggy.”

A lot of things were changing, but whether or not _Lucian Cruisers_ approved of his off-brand outfits and “extracurricular company” outside of work hours, he knew that Ignis – veiled condescension and all – wouldn’t turn him away if he wanted an old band tee taken in a little – or maybe wanted to gush about what a great kisser his long-time “rival” was.

Change, of course, came with questions, even in a small, New Year’s Eve gathering of close industry friends. While a great deal softer than the tabloid interrogations he’d been repeating himself to for weeks now, they still boiled down to the same basic principles.

_“What brought on this deviation from the stylistic standards we’ve come to expect from you and your brand?”_

_“What sparked this new interest of yours in charitable foundations such as the chocobo conservation efforts in Cavaugh?”_

_“Does all of this have anything to do with Nyx Ulric’s influence?”_

People said “influence” as if Noctis was some fair, wilting young thing, too ignorant of the cutthroat nature of the industry to have any agency in his own relationship. It was about what he and Nyx both expected when they finally went public, hash-tagging the grainy parking lot hand-holding with all the right words to confirm its truth.

Part of the press was more vengeful with the story after being kept in the dark about it for so long, as was the petty nature of the paparazzi. The other part – the social media part, with all its fans and their firestorms of frantic “firsts!” on the newsfeed posts – was far more congratulatory – and even more vindicated.

It was a messy month of media madness, but nothing they weren’t fully prepared for. Whether they were demonized or deified, all the questions and criticisms lowered to a murmur in his head as soon as Noctis felt the warm weight of Nyx’s hand around his. Tonight, that hand came bearing a cheap case of beer with a nostalgic blue label.

“Something old and something blue,” Nyx announced as he balanced the clinking glass bottles on the balcony.

“Are we getting married? I guess I can lower my standards enough to accept a bottle cap for a ring. Though I would have preferred a diamond.”

“Not unless it wasn’t sculpted from hard candy you wouldn’t have.”

“Oh yeah, you’re the one, dude.”

Nyx grinned like a thief from antiquity, leaping from Noct’s chamber window with a wink and his heart in his hand. His smile had changed since he’d pulled down his hood for the cameras to capture. It was bolder, more brazen when it was turned towards Noct in a crowded room, unguarded and devil-may-care and daring Noctis closer to kiss it even wider, to hell with the gawkers and gasps that were scandalized by the whole affair.

Nyx hummed against the press of his lips to return the greeting, sheltering his hands beneath the open sides of Noct’s shirt as the chill breeze bit across the high rise. “Is this new?” he asked, dipping his head to better study the soft fabric sliding between his fingers.

“New to you,” Noctis said, watching the firm lines of his face melt in fond repose. “I know it’s not your favorite color on me, but…”

“Wouldn’t know. I’ve never seen you in anything else.”

Nyx ran the open fronts between thumb and forefinger, down one side and up the other to slip a knuckle beneath the collar. Noctis watched how his eyes followed his hands, dancing glances between all the faults his wardrobe had previously been designed to hide: the subtle hook to his back from a childhood injury that made his hips stand a little crooked, the sleeves hanging a little loose on his thin arms, the collar bunching in the dips of his shoulders as he habitually hunched them when he slouched.

The leather jackets had pulled taught across his shoulders to keep them straight, the tight pants pressing his hips into their proper alignment, each article crafted to perfect the imperfect minutiae of his mortal coil. He was trading clasps for comfort now, baring his broken parts for the magnifying glass and wearing them proudly.

“I like it,” Nyx said, reverent as he feathered a thumb beneath Noct’s eye. “Blue’s your color, baby.”

Gazing back at the drops of crystalline blue suspended like dewdrops in Nyx’s eyes, he was inclined to agree. Blue was _definitely_ his color.

A flash in his eye almost had Noctis slip back into his Prince’s persona under threat of party crashing paparazzi, but he smiled at the lens when he realized it was Prompto. “Don’t know how I didn’t see it,” his friend huffed, sighing in melodramatic malaise as he reviewed his work. “The camera does not lie, and yet, couldn’t see the truth when it was right in front of me. It’s so obvious now.”

“What, are you saying we’re transparent?” Noctis teased.

“Weeell,” Prompto drawled, rolling his eyes elsewhere. “You haven’t exactly been subtle.”

“And yet, you were all still so surprised.”

Noctis kneaded an elbow into Nyx’s side, sinking beneath the solid, smug slide of his arm over his shoulders. Prompto skewered him with a jutted-lip glare and Noctis could only smile his sympathies. He’d been paying for his secrecy in arcade binges, shopping sprees, and exclusive shoots of intimate, behind-the-scenes glimpses at “Insomnia’s best kept couple” – as if Noctis would trust anyone else behind the lens of those particular pictures.

“Send me a copy of that one?” he asked, inclining his chin at the camera.

“Yes, yes, you get first looks on everything,” Prompto said in exaggerated annoyance. He was going to play the jilted victim of conspiracy for as long as Noct could afford to make it up to him – and Noctis was happy to reimburse him. “I’ll leave you to plot your romantic getaway. Where no cameras are allowed. Missing out on all the beautiful vistas, the perfect lighting, the crystal clear oceans, all wasted without a picture to immortalize them…”

He continued to bemoan their secrecy as he walked back into the party, immediately going for Ignis to try and pry a clue as to where exactly the two planned on sneaking away without him to document the whole adventure.

“I almost feel guilty for whisking you away,” Nyx said, smiling after Prompto’s sneaked-back glances.

“Don’t let that puppy face tempt you into backing out on me.”

“Not for the fluffiest, poutiest puppy in the world. You know I’m more of a cat person.”

“Meow.”

Noctis purred to press the point, sidling into Nyx’s side and bumping his head beneath his chin as they both curled against the balcony. He certainly felt as content as a kitten, swaddled in his favorite shirt, tucked in the lap of the life he’d always wanted.

Putting his face and his profits to the animal preservation groups across Lucis was as close to his veterinary dreams as he could get within the compromises of his contract with _Cruisers_. And he was happy with that. He could achieve a broader scope than what his child’s mind had confined to his dreams, donating generous sums to keep shelters open and strengthen protections for endangered species and preserve the vanishing spaces where their ecosystems were under threat.

It wasn’t what people expected of their leather-clad Prince, but for the most part, people were on the pleasant side of surprised by the ad campaigns depicting a more dressed down Noctis, petting shelter cats in newly refurbished kennels. It took the sting out of any betrayal regarded towards his love life, which was a helpful effect Noctis had never considered when he’d gone into his new partnerships. He’d merely wanted to help, and the work rewarded him.

“How have you been holding up?” Nyx asked as he snapped open a bottle of beer for him, deft wrist angling the neck against the concrete corner, just like Noctis remembered from the first night he’d met him.

“Better, now that things are quieting down. Changed their tune when that charity drive dropped. Why are people so surprised that I love animals?”

“Probably think you run them over with the motorcycle they’re propping you up on all the time.”

Noctis made an appalled noise, shuddering at the very thought of it. He was as happy to dispel that image of himself as he was to rid himself of this prophesized envy he was meant to have for his cover competitor. Nyx laughed, all casual devilry as he took a slug of beer before offering the bottleneck to Noctis. Tasted the same as he remembered, cheap and hoppy and cold down his throat in the brisk winter night. It settled at the bottom of his chest and warmed his heart like campfire embers.

“What about you?” Noctis asked, trading Nyx the bottle for a hand to hold his clammy fingertips. “Settle on a price yet?”

Nyx’s face instantly opened into a grin, a toothy beacon of joy as bright as any fireworks going off that night, before he tried to shut it down into a grim façade of solemnity to try and tease Noctis with a false answer. It was too late to conceal it from him though, Noctis already clutching his arm in expectant excitement.

“Just got the deed this morning,” Nyx blurted.

It was all Noctis could do not to jump up and down like a squealing, pre-teen groupie at a YUNA concert. Instead, he wrapped his relief around Nyx’s trapped arm and beamed at him in silent excitement. Nyx tried to reserve his happiness in the beer bottle, concealing his smile around another long gulp.

“We’re really going, then?” Noctis pressed him, keeping his voice low from any eager ears in the apartment behind them.

“Rustic, island retreat, courtesy of our new little fixer-upper. Hope you’re prepared to put in some work during your vacation time, Highness.”

“Hope you can keep up with me, old timer.”

Nyx made a wounded face, playacting like Noctis had just punched the youth right out of his chest. But he had never looked younger to him. Noctis could feel his giddiness bubbling beneath his skin like soda-pop, bursting golden and sweet through every pore. He could almost taste it, tickling the tip of his tongue when he stood on his toes to reach a kiss to his cheek.

Nyx had been watching the vintage pub in Galahd for years, only as a reminder of home, a hidden bookmark in the back of his phone’s browser for when he wanted to retreat to his pipedream and lose himself in the idea of driving down that road. Now, it was only one, fueled-up flight and two passports away.

Animal rescue and bar restorations, old cotton shirts and cheap gas station beer, New Year’s city and forever summer islands. Casualwear fantasies on magazine racks with a fortune of film-work behind them, and they were all right there for the taking. Right within reach, just behind the camera lens.

“Your new wardrobe’s perfect for pub improvement,” Nyx pointed out, just as the city beneath them, twinkling like a carpet of fallen stars, started to roar with the countdown to midnight. “I love it, don’t get me wrong, but… any chance you might consider smuggling a few select pieces from the out of season bin? For a private showing?”

Nyx warmed the request against his hair, making Noct’s blood rumble with the measured beats of the countdown. He reached up to Nyx’s arm, draped along his shoulders like warm velvet, stitching their fingers together and testing a kiss against Nyx’s knuckles. He felt Nyx still and soften, his body hot against his side as Noctis slanted a glance up at him.

“I might be able to bring a few things back in style. Maybe those jeans you liked, from the fall preview?”

“Mmmhm, exactly like those jeans I liked,” Nyx hummed, slowly setting his beer aside.

His palm glided across the waistline of Noct’s pants. Noctis swiveled into the touch, the small movement guiding Nyx’s hand to rest in his back pocket and grip him closer. He fit himself between Nyx’s hips, anchoring beneath the gravity of his arms, lest he float up to explode in a brilliance of colors when the fireworks set off at the final toll of midnight.

Kissing Nyx was timeless, yet with every new collision, Noctis tasted something new. It was weightless tonight, tilting him back over his arm like they were falling out into the glittering rockets setting the night ablaze. He could taste the cold beer on the tips of his lips, scraping along his edges before melting into the dark warmth that had intoxicated him from the very first kiss.

He felt the rawness of it, the power in it, claiming him and capturing him, not as the Prince in his gilded cage, but merely as Noct. Naked in his raggedy old clothes. Stripped down to the barest parts of himself, the ugly parts, shabby chic and learning to love himself for his reflection again.

Just like Nyx did. Just like he loved Nyx. Pure and plain, unadorned and adored for it. He could feel Nyx’s wildfire heart pounding through his chest, boundless and burning past his leather and denim and derelict vices propped into every set. Noctis loved him vulnerable, simple, and bared from the shadow of the warrior of runway fashion. He loved that he was soft for him, gentle with all that power thrumming through his arms as he possessed him with his kisses and his promises and his lust for life shared with him.

“I love you,” Nyx gasped between them. He told him so every single day since the crash. Like it was just too few words to say only once. Like he couldn’t risk forgetting that words were what mattered between them now, undressing every doubt and every fear until they were both laid bare to this one real truth.

The fireworks snapped bright blue light across Nyx’s face. Blue like the pool of that intimate summer night, blue like the guilty beer they shared with their secrets, blue like his favorite shirt, his eyes, like the forever skies and the seas ahead of them.

“Love you forever, baby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more WIP off my list, huzzah! This was an old favorite that I likely should have left as oneshot way back when, but I honestly just had too much fun playing dress up with the boys to not play around in it more. Thank you for reading around while I indulged in my fashion fantasy! I hope you've enjoyed, please comment if you did! I appreciate the feedback! :)


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